


Good plan, perfect execution

by tawg



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Community: blindfold_spn, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-01
Updated: 2011-08-01
Packaged: 2017-10-22 02:06:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/232523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tawg/pseuds/tawg
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam has feelings for Gabriel. Gabriel doesn't return them. The obvious solution? Take a leaf out of the Trickster's book and force Gabriel to play his role.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Good plan, perfect execution

Sam didn’t know if it was because it had been so long since he’d been shot down. Usually he was the one saying ‘No, not interested’. Maybe it was the little blow to his pride, after Gabriel informed him that he was “Too boring, and too flat-chested”. Boring? Filled with demon blood and psychic powers and with Lucifer filling out the lease forms, he was _boring?_ Maybe it had been the way Gabriel had looked at him after Sam had carefully and bluntly stated his feelings. His nose wrinkled, lip curled, and one eyebrow arched in disbelief. If that expression could be captured in a single word, it would be ‘ew’.

Gabriel, omnisexual archangel who flirted with everything and slept with half of those things, had lumped Sam Winchester – brains, brawn and everything else – in the same category as vomit, dog poop, and black liquorice, the hard kind that got stuck in your back teeth.

It hurt because to Sam, Gabriel was something amazing. He was an angel and a god, he was handsome and quick, he was smiles and laughter and perfect weather and rich foods. Gabriel looked good, and smelled good, and was wicked and cruel and well-intentioned and he’d crawled up inside Sam’s brain somehow, made a space that was all his own and infested Sam’s masturbation fantasies with raised eyebrows and smirking mouths and lean bodies that were so much stronger than they looked. And he’d shattered Sam with a blunt, unforgiving, “Not enough booze in the world, Elephant Man”.

But Sam knew how to deal with stubbornness. He knew how the Trickster dealt with it, and that was to hammer the point home with a brick to the head, to do anything and everything to make the ‘you may not want to admit it, but this is for the best’ message sink in. Sam was sure that with enough dogged persistence, Gabriel would come around.

It was hard, though, he’d admit that. When Sam put his hand on Gabriel’s knee under the table in a diner, Gabriel simply stopped eating with them. When Sam slumped against Gabriel in the back of the Impala under the pretence of falling asleep, Gabriel simply snapped into the front seat, and laughed as Sam toppled over and hit his head on the door. When Sam offered to share his bed if Gabriel needed to rest, Gabriel had given him a disgusted look and told him that angels didn’t _need_ to sleep.

In the morning Sam had found Gabriel and Castiel slumped against one another on the couch, Castiel snoring gently and Gabriel looking oddly vulnerable with his face slack and his hair a little mussed. But Gabriel hadn’t been asleep around the other members of Team Free Will before or since, and Sam was certain the archangel had just been sticking the boot in.

Sam was running out of ideas when he flopped down on his bed. Castiel was sitting at the foot of Dean’s, staring intently at the television. Sam looked up; it was some Sandra Bullock movie.

“I don’t understand marriage,” Castiel said, frowning at the screen as if it displayed some unsolvable riddle. “Why is there so much ceremony around a simple devotion?”

Sam sighed. Dean should really be dealing with these questions, but he was getting far too good at avoiding them. “Don’t angels have anything like this?” he asked, dragging himself upright. On screen, Sandra Bullock’s gay best friend was asking if there had been any response when she’d kissed the love of her life.

“No,” Castiel replied simply. “Angels can be bound to a task, but there is no,” he gestured weakly to the screen, where there was running through the streets and a fight in a ladies bathroom. “It is simple,” he finally concluded.

Sam turned that over in his mind. “How are angels bound?” he asks. “Is it magic, or obligation, or..?”

“Magic cannot bind angels,” Castiel replied, finally tearing his eyes away from the television. Sam slumped a little, there was one more possibility struck out. “All angels are bound to their garrison. I don’t know if it’s obligation. We... they are designed that way.”

Sam shoved his pity for Castiel’s fall to one side. “So it’s instinctive?”

“Yes, it’s difficult to rebel against.”

“But not impossible.”

“No.”

Sam frowned; it wasn’t what he was looking for at all. “Is there anything, a ritual or something, that can bind an angel to something?”

Castiel thought. “The archangels were bound to Heaven, when our father left,” he finally replied.

Sam looked up. “Really?”

Castiel nodded, pleased that he had provided something of interest. “Our father wished for the archangels to guide Heaven through his absence, so he tied each one of them to their Heaven, bound them so that they would hold no priority higher.”

“Even Gabriel?”

Castiel frowned. “No,” he replied. “Gabriel ran. He is unbound, without devotion.”

Sam nodded. “That sounds like Gabriel. This binding, how does it work?”

Castiel struggled for a few moments. He had trouble sometimes, remembering things that all angels knew. “It tied one life to another,” he said. “It made one life obedient to the other.”

“What life? Heaven is a place.”

“Heaven is organic,” Castiel replied, and offered no further explanation on the matter.

“This binding,” Sam said slowly. “Do you know how it was done?”

“Yes,” Castiel replied simply. He started to rattle off requirements and the incantation, and Sam had to stop him long enough to grab a pen and the pad of cheap hotel paper.

“Thank you,” Sam said, when they were done, ink smeared on the side of his hand from writing so quickly.

Castiel looked down at the paper in Sam’s hand, an odd, sad smile on his face. “I’m glad to be of use to you.”

*

Sam was a little surprised that it was such a simple ritual, but that was Heaven’s way – sigils composed of a few tight angles, a handful of symbols that represented every single hard Enochian syllable, and the neat and tidy directness of a creator who had known what he was doing. It was elegant. Castiel had taught Sam the names of all of the archangels, under the pretence that “It’ll probably come in handy some day.” He was held up by the absence of Gabriel’s blade, the extension of his will, but Sam got into trouble often enough, and Gabriel was the only back up they had. All it took was a moment of distraction as Gabriel scanned the room for more potential threats, and Sam had his hand wrapped around the blade, the sharpness of it cutting into him, his blood on the shiny metal and a look of horror on Gabriel’s face as words that Sam had all but carved into his brain fell from his lips.

The room was washed white with grace. Then the light faded quickly, and Gabriel crumpled to the floor.

*

It hadn’t taken much explaining. Sam had told Dean that something got through Gabriel’s defences, knocked him out. It wasn’t a lie.

Castiel had known from the moment he saw Gabriel, passed out and his mouth slightly open, slung onto Sam’s bed. He’d looked at Sam with pursed lips, disapproving but far too aware of his own guilt. Sam explained. They needed Gabriel. An archangel on their side was an ace up their sleeve. Gabriel was unreliable. Gabriel had no devotion to the side he had arbitrarily picked. A bound Gabriel was one who wouldn’t desert them to save his own skin, _couldn’t_.

And Castiel had looked at his unconscious brother, at the warping of a ritual that had bound angels to the purity of Heaven, and he had nodded. From a tactical perspective, it made sense. But Castiel looked back and forth between Gabriel and Sam before he left, and Sam was sure that he was able to see through the tactics to the intention beneath.

*

There were no fanfares or fireworks when Gabriel woke up. Just his eyes opening, and him sitting up with a mildly confused look on his face. He pressed a hand against his sternum, as if checking that his vessel’s organs were still in place. He tilted his head, his gaze flicking around the room as if he had lost something but couldn’t remember what. And then his eyes fell on Sam, sitting across the room and waiting for him. Gabriel frowned, knowing that something had changed without knowing what.

“Come here,” Sam said. And Gabriel stood with the easy fluidity that had marked him apart from the other angels Sam had encountered, walked across the motel room in his blue jeans and clean tennis shoes. He stood in front of Sam, frowning down at him, distracted by the oddity inside himself.

Sam reached out and grabbed the hem of Gabriel’s shirt, taking a moment to tangle his fingers in the worn material. He tugged at it gently, and Gabriel sank to his knees between Sam’s thighs. He tilted his head, focussing on Sam and silently asking for an explanation. Sam titled his own head in compliment and leaned forwards, pressing his lips against Gabriel’s. Sam didn’t want him to pull back, so Gabriel stayed in place. Sam wanted him to respond, so the angel parted his lips. Gabriel’s mouth was warm, and soft, and pliant. It was nothing like Sam had expected a kiss with the Trickster to be.

And with the thoughts of those imagined kisses swirling through Sam’s mind, Gabriel surged forwards, attacking Sam’s mouth, biting and licking, sucking hard on Sam’s bottom lip in perfect mimicry of the fantasies in Sam’s head. His hands fisted in Sam’s shirt, Sam’s fingers tangled in Gabriel’s hair. When Sam pulled away, Gabriel was glaring at Sam, full of barely contained fury. Sam smiled at him and, after a thought, Gabriel’s own lips curled into something approximating a smile.

With a bit of practice, Sam was confident that Gabriel could kiss like that without prompting.

*

Sex was almost easy. Sam had so many fantasies, had them for so long. And he knew about training his brain, working up from something small. He started with Gabriel’s hand wrapped around his cock, jerking him slowly, jerking him the way Sam would jerk himself. He would have liked some dirty talk, Gabriel was mouthy and Sam loved that about him. But unless he had the words lined up in his own mind, giving Gabriel control of his own vocal chords was an exercise in abuse, and curse words from dead languages. Sam was pretty sure Gabriel threw a few actual curses in, but since Sam had no desire to be hurt, Gabriel had no ability to hurt him, and the syllables twisted and failed on his uncooperative tongue.

He couldn’t have Gabriel’s words, his wonderful sarcastic endearing commentary, but Sam could have his mouth, and he did. Thrusting into that hot wet mess of lips and tongue and teeth, his hands fisted in Gabriel’s hair, Gabriel’s hands hanging limply until Sam prompted them into action with a thought... It was easier if he set out with a clear scenario in mind, a play for Gabriel to perform, with all of the dialogue and blocking mapped out. And Sam could do that. After all of the imagination and determination Gabriel had shown during their acquaintance, Sam could surely repay him in kind.

*

Sam couldn’t keep control of Gabriel in a fight. It was too much work, keeping track of his own movements and pressing Gabriel into place as well. So he pulled back until he was clinging to _‘don’t let me die, don’t let any of us die’_ with all of his focus, doing his best to dodge demons as they swarmed.

With his leash let slack, Gabriel was ruthless. He was blur of sliver blade and holy fire, a hard dance of screams that turned into black smoke, that crackled as Gabriel smote everything he could out of existence. When he was done, a few seconds after Sam had given him the smallest taste of freedom, he turned on Sam, stalking over to him with the same expression that had caused demons to back away.

“Sam Winchester,” he hissed. “I fucking _hate_ you.”

The words hurt, but Sam couldn’t help smiling. He’d missed Gabriel’s voice. He’d have to find a way to hear it more often.

*

“So what the hell is up with you two?” Dean eventually asked.

It was easy for Sam to picture the response, to watch as Gabriel turned to Dean, as he said, “Well, if you want all of the sordid details,” his mouth smirking and his eyebrows twitching. It was almost like the old Gabriel.

Dean had recoiled. “No,” he replied hastily. “Any details of _any_ nature, and I’m handing you over to Heaven.”

Gabriel’s laugh wasn’t quite right, the cords of his neck were too stiff, and there was an angry set to his eyes that Sam just couldn’t erase. But it convinced Dean, and that was good enough for the time being.

Castiel and Sam had an unspoken agreement that Dean was not to know about the binding. Sam knew how he’d react, that he wouldn’t understand, and it was just obvious to avoid that mess until after the Apocalypse, until Gabriel had settled down and accepted things.

Keeping Dean ignorant was the best option, tactically speaking.

*

Sex was getting pretty good. Sam couldn’t let go, not completely. If he gave himself over to pleasure Gabriel could break free, could crush Sam’s ribs and pin him to the floor with his foot against Sam’s throat and his sword in his hand, and then Sam would have to fight hard, would need strong thoughts to bring Gabriel back under control, to smother that irritating spark of resistance that lingered even as Sam willed Gabriel to heal the wounds, to apologise, to kiss it all better.

Sam couldn’t lose himself to pleasure, but if he kept his mind rooted in the sensations of the now, of the feel of Gabriel around him, of the muscles shifting under his hands and the way Gabriel’s throat was exposed as Sam fisted a hand in his hair and yanked his head back, the taste of that expanse of perfect skin. Sam could pound into Gabriel, could be as rough as he wanted safe in the knowledge that angels were near impossible to hurt, that Gabriel could take it without the slightest bit of damage.

If he thought about it, he could make Gabriel hard, could wrap his fingers around his angel’s cock and jerk him hard and fast, could make semen flow out and over his hand, and if it wasn’t a perfect orgasm, well, that was hardly Sam’s fault. Gabriel would learn, eventually. Would enjoy it just like he should.

*

Sometimes Sam would allow a bit of slack, would let Gabriel’s expression come through, would let him pace and snarl and rage within a cage that Sam plotted out inside his mind. He would let Gabriel yell without sound. He’d been a very angry person himself; he knew that yelling could be therapeutic, but he didn’t want Dean to be woken by the sound.

He enjoyed watching Gabriel in those moments, despite the sadness that his anger caused Sam. It was nice seeing him alive and passionate, seeing the parts of him that Sam couldn’t quite recreate. Sam was learning though, was memorising more and more, and making up the rest. Sometimes Castiel sat, on the end of Dean’s bed, or leaned against the counter of the small kitchenette. He watched, and Sam wondered if he felt pride at their handiwork. The archangel Gabriel, bound as God had intended him to be.

Eventually Castiel broke the silence. “You can’t make him love you.”

Sam looked down at Gabriel, at the rage on his face. “No,” he agreed. “But I can wait.”

*

Sleep wasn’t the big weakness Sam had worried it would be. Having been raised by John Winchester, Sam had a very strong desire not to die. And as long as he functioned around that desperate need to be alive, Gabriel could not banish Sam from the world of the living. Sometimes Sam worried that Gabriel wanted to. He would wake up with Gabriel sitting up in their bed, staring down at him with a hard, distant expression on his face and his sword in his hand. But Gabriel couldn’t use it on Sam, couldn’t break the tie between angel and human. And Sam took solace in the realisation that it was happening less often.

More and more often he would wake up to see Gabriel sitting with his back to Sam, his head bent, his sword across his knees. His face was contemplative, tired when it was lacking in anger. Sam liked those quiet, introspective moments, and they lulled him back into an easy sleep.

*

“So,” Dean said. “Gabriel’s been acting weird lately.” Sam had looked at Dean patiently, waiting for his brother to spit it out. “Quiet,” Dean finally clarified. “Helpful. You know, not like him.”

Sam shrugged. “He’s still the same. Just, you know, a lot of changes to deal with.”

“You’ve been different, too,” Dean added like an afterthought, but Sam knew his brother well.

“How?”

Dean looked at Sam then, a guarded look as he flicked his eyes over Sam’s face. “Not a good kind of different.”

Sam frowned. “Why, because I’m happy for a change?”

Dean looked away, his face twisted by a wry smile. “Yeah,” he said at last. “Maybe I’m just not used to that.” He turned back to Sam, his expression serious. “Don’t do anything stupid, okay?”

Sam snorted. “Come on, Dean. I’m smarter than that.”

*

And then Sam was woken by a scream. A loud, horrible scream that shattered windows and made the lights flare and explode, made his ears bleed. Sam curled in on himself, disoriented by the hard wind and the bright light, angelic light. An attack? But then Sam forced his eyes open, forced his ears to find something identifiable in the sound that overwhelmed him.

Gabriel.

Gabriel, kneeling on the floor of the shitty motel room.

Gabriel’s sword, buried in his side. Two hands on the hilt, pushing it through his flesh, pushing it downwards, light and power and grace tearing out of him, tearing the room apart, and Gabriel was screaming as if he were dying.

And by the time Sam realised what was happening, it was too late. Too late to order him to stop.

Gabriel’s grace lay on the floor, a sick blinding shape that hurt to look at, that seemed to emit a noise that was too high a frequency to hear. And with a rough grunt, Gabriel lifted his sword and stabbed the brightness, stabbed it over and over until it was cut into worthless chunks, until the sound and the light was gone, until the grace was just empty, worthless flesh, and Gabriel was just a man with one hand clapped over the hole in his side, fingers slipping desperately to keep his insides inside.

Sam looked over at Dean, but his view was blocked by Castiel, standing stoically between then twin beds. His expression was broken. Castiel slowly fell to his knees, his head bowed, and Sam had to look away. Looked back to Gabriel, who for some reason had cut the angel right out of his own being, had killed the part of him that made him holy.

Gabriel, who was covered in blood. Who still had a sword in his hand. Who was glowering at Sam even as a small, cruel smile curved his lips.

Gabriel, who was free to do as he pleased.


End file.
